Rendevous
by Nicki Kinnley
Summary: A young rouge finds his destiny while partaking in an adventure that leads throughout the eastern kingdoms.


I opened my eyes and groaned as the sunlight touched my face. What idiot had left the curtains open? I stretched my sore limbs and rolled to the side, trying to avoid the inevitable.

"Ali, wake yer sleepy arse up. It's been daylight in the bloody swamp fer hours an' yer still abed!" The cry was followed by a pounding on my door. Cringing I admitted defeat and sat up. The remenents of last night's festivities surrounded me. Empty steins and a keg that was slowly dripping on the floor. Ragnar Thunderbrew's own personal recipe. We were _supposed_ to bring it to Brewnall Village for a king's ransom...but instead my stoutfast companion and I had chosen to drink it away. After all, why join in the Keg wars of Dun Morogh?

"I knew yer awake in there ye bloody rouge," he spat.

"I'm up, I'm up," I grumbled. Something Kestern Silverblade was most certainly not was patient. "Stupid dwarves never seem to have friggin hangovers..."

"I 'eard that!" I rolled my eyes.

We had met a few moonturns ago at Ironforge. I had been trying to lighten a rather heavy purse and he had been carrying a rather large sword. But that's another story. We found a common call to adventure and had since been together. Ignorant cuss though he might be, he was my ticket to Magni Bronzebeard, King of the dwarves of Ironforge. I knew they had treasures abound somewhere in that mountain city, and as soon as we gained enough favour with his followers, I would strike and become rich beyond my wildest dreams.

"A letter came fer you today. Ragnar's all in a huff because of who it's from?"

I paused. A letter? No one was supposed to know where I was! Ignoring the pounding in my head, I strung up my leathers and grabbed my dagger. It had been a find in the Ironforge auctions, and one of the few things I had paid legitimately for. The auctioneer had called her Vendetta, and I had followed suite.

Kestren laughed when he saw me, my red hair frazzled and my eyes bloodshot. He clapped me on the back so hard I staggered. "Head beating like a drum?" I grinned and glanced around.

"Who's the letter from?" He handed it to me, trying not to look interested and failing. When I saw the name, my heart almost stopped. Hogral Bakkan. One of my teachers and richest theives in the land. What did he want with me? I opened it only to find it blank except one word: Trouble. I crumpled it. "Does anyone know where he is?"

Kestren raised an eyebrow, "Ye know what they say about 'im, he'll be found only if he wants ter be found." I threw up my hands in defeat. This was as bad as that time Kestren had found that bloody treasure map in a dead Murloc's hand. Captain Sanders had sent us over hell's half acre just to wind up with a ratty shirt that smelled like whiskey, a bag that was not only ugly, but small, a belt that looked suspiciously blood stained and a single silver bar. Some haul. My theories was that the man had been on the edge of sanity when he had written up his "clues".

But at least the dead captain had given directions, even if they had led us into the heart of gnolls, defias and those ugly, stinking murlocs. '_Just like a rouge,'_ I thought with some irony. He had probably been afraid that the mountaineers would intercept the letter. I sighed. "Alright, look, is it okay if we try to find him before leaving Kharanos? If he sent a letter, to me of all people, then he must be desparate. I didn't get the impression that he even liked me when I was training with him-,"

"You _trained_ with him?"

I waved off the question and threw on my backpack. Contrary to popular belief, adventurers do not carry light loads. If I could afford a mule, I would have a mule. Instead, I have light knows how many bags and whatever I pick up from the random wild boar attack for food. Luckily for me, Kestren was an excellant cook. The load got heavy after a while for my poor human back. Kestren though, never seemed to get tired. The dwarf had bulging bags and would carry his sword and shield to boot. Every now and then he would leave me in any given town, haggle with store keepers and come back with enough silver to allow us to spend the night in any given inn. If that failed, we would fight for our right to a bed for the night. Hey, that rhymed! Sorry, still tired.

I ignored Kestren's amazed and disapproving look and moved downstairs into the Thunderbrew Distillery, which was milling with dwarves and gnomes. Until recently I hadn't known that they had taken their home in Ironforge. I had always assumed the seemingly suicidal little bastards had killed themselves off to near extinction during the time of the Scourge. I shuddered, thinking of that. I could still remember Lordaeron before the Prince's turning. I had been a survivor of one of the battles, and I could still remember seeing Arthas Menethil atop the demonic steed he rode. His eyes had held no more humanity.

Some people say he died. Some say he was taken by the Dreadlords. Others that he is in hiding, nursing his wounds. One night I had met an old warrior who had come in shaking, saying he had heard demons conversing about their lich king. That he was in Northrend, building a citidal in blaspheme of the light. Where Northrend was, I did not ask, but his testimonial had been enough to plague me with nightmares for days.

Ragnar avoided me from the time that we came downstairs, to the time we finally left. I knew he wouldn't be the kind to alert the mountaineers to the letter, as he had his own dubious business to attend to. Still, it didn't help my nervousness. The last time I had spoke with Hogral, he had sent me to the Forlorn Caverns in the back of Ironforge on his "road to salvation". I had spent the next night on the doorstep of the Friendly Fisherman, the smell of sulphur from demonic presences filling the air. I don't know how Warlocks stand that smell, but then again, I don't understand Warlocks in general. Insane, every last one of them.

"Lighten up, laddie," Kestren growled in my ear as we sat down, "Ye look like the world's about te come crashin' down around ye. People are starin'." And indeed they were. I forced a grin, and raised a morning mulled brew to one of the gnomes wandering by. She winked at me, and went to sit by the local priest. Another initiate. I sighed, they were helpful in a fight, but a waste of a beautiful face sometimes.

" So, what's the plan?"

"I was thinking about trying to avoid him," I mused, "But I think he'd find me, and I'd be worse for the wear." He nodded sagely. "So, instead, I suppose I'll have to find him."

I wonder to myself as my mead cooled if this had to do with some of the rumors of the four great Alliance cities hiring assaians for their own bloody games. And theives, like myself. Instead of iron mitts, they were given prestige and more equipment to do their work. The other half, at least, around where I came from, wound up with Van Cleef. Then again, I had also heard he met with a rather nasty demise and that his head was on display in Westfall. I never know what to believe, seems every day I hear people bragging about killing him. Somehow I doubted their tales of five people taking on half of the Defias brotherhood.

"Find him? Ye and wha' army? The Mountaineers have a bounty on his capture, ye think we cin do wot they've 'ad years te?" Kestren downed his cup, threw the barmaid a silver and hefted his sword to his back. "C'mon. My advice is ta ignore the bloody letta and jus come with me te Thelsemmar."

I wrinkled my nose. Thelsammer was warmer, but I couldn't stand their kobold infestation. They were as bad as rats in Stormwind, and noisier at that. Not much smarter either, though I had from time to time seen them get the jump on some poor unsuspecting clergy or warlock out to prove themselves to whatever side of the light they were on. "Now, don' go an' git contrary on me lad. The king's worried 'bout the land there an' it's my honour as a citizen ta do wot I cin te 'elp."

"Knowing the reputation of the ale there, I doubt honour has nothing to do with it Kest, so don't you be trying to pull the wool over my eyes." He laughed heartily as only a dwarf can and slapped me hard enough on the back to rock me and my stomach again. The result was me losing every bit of dexterity I have to stumble out into the snow before Ragnar could toss me out for sullying his floor.

The sun shone like fire on the hard packed snow of Dun Morogh. Despite the word of any dwarf there is no such thing as summer here. Simply snow...snowing...snow with clouds or my personal favourite, really friggin' cold. It's no wonder dwarves are always drinking, it's the only way to stay warm.


End file.
